What language even is that? Whoever’s talking sounds like that purple alien from the movie my nephew made me watch six times.Home. That’s it.
Great. I've died, and Jim Parsons is narrating the afterlife.
Honestly, I wouldn’t even be surprised at this point.
I try to wiggle my fingers, and to my shock, they twitch. When they do, something soft brushes against my hand—it kind of feels like a stuffed animal.
Oh wait.I was in the woods. A wolf got me. The wolf has obviously eaten part of my head, which is why I can't hear properly anymore.
Do they even have wolves in death?
No, idiot. They don't.
There's something warm and heavy covering me—it smells like cinnamon and smoke. Oh my god, a whole pack of wolves is lying on top of me. I’ve been sent to some alternate hellscape where, instead of people using animal rugs, they use humans.
Oh my fucking God, Lumi. Human rugs? Really?
“Velorin.”It’s a sigh more than a word.
I don’t know what it means, but the sound of it slips into a part of me I thought died the same day Anna did. It fills a space I didn’t think anything would ever touch again.
I try to open my eyes, but they're still so heavy. My body refuses to cooperate.
It's so warm here, and whatever I'm lying on is ridiculously comfortable. I wiggle my fingers again and hear a soft sound, almost a growl, but not angry. Just... rumbly.
Where am I?
I manage to crack one eyelid open. Everything is bathed in flickering amber light. My eyelid falls shut again.
I rest for a moment, then try again. This time, I can keep my eye open a little longer. The room comes into focus slowly, wooden walls, firelight dancing across strange jars on shelves, bunches of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling, and...is that a bone knife?
Okay, so whoever took me definitely has a vibe. And that vibe is 60% off-grid hermit, 40% might-actually-murder-me-later.
My eye falls shut again, exhaustion pulling me back under. I can't see him, but I can feel his presence. Maybe if I stay still, he’ll think I’m still unconscious.
Too late.Floorboards creak and groan beneath his weight. Then a softthwipright next to my face.
Did he just flick me?
I force my eyes open and see a huge, shimmering feather lying on the cushion beside my head. He plucked it from my hair. Is he collecting souvenirs? Am I a scrapbook project?
At this point, I don’t know if I’m being courted or prepared for dinner.
This is fine.Everything is fine. I'm just going to pretend I'm back in my apartment with the broken heater and the neighbor who blasts EDM until 2 a.m. Except the air out here smells pure and wild. Not frat-boy Chad, who lived across the hall and decided to switch to natural deodorant, wild. But something that can’t be tamed.
“Velorin,” he rasps.
It makes something in my chest tighten—something I don’t have a word for. I shift slightly, and my boots scrape against the couch.
The growl returns, and my boots are gently removed, then my socks. Whoever’s touching me is being so careful it almost makes me want to cry...nobody is ever careful with me.
Logically,I know I should be terrified. Some unknown person is undressing me while I’m half-conscious in the middle of nowhere.
But I’m not.
I have this overwhelming sense of peace when they touch me. Somehow, I know they’re trying to help, not take advantage of the situation.
I may not know who brought me here, but I’m suddenly sure of one thing:
